Til Death
by budgefan1990
Summary: The spirit of the Ring is immortal; Malik Ishtar is not. But even death can be cheated, and the old thief has a few tricks up his sleeve... Thiefshipping, YBxMI


At two o clock on December 23rd, a stranger arrived in the port of Said, three hours from Cairo; just in time, as he had plans for dinner. The stranger alighted the ship with a deep inbreath, sucking in the musty, hot air that had always, for millenia, smelled of home... and that would always, for millenia to come. It filled his borrowed lungs, making his borrowed heart thrill with the excitement that was all his own. In a few hours, the spirit of the Millenium Ring would arrive at the home of his old friend, Malik Ishtar. Soon, he would be at the other's door, hear his sharp voice calling from within, and then he would be looking into his eyes once more. He couldn't wait.

He hailed a cab, and after settling into the foul-smelling back seat, the spirit of the Ring let his mind wander... as it had been more often than not lately, it wandered to Malik. It hadn't been long since they'd last met; too long, though, as far as he was concerned. The last he'd seen the Egyptian they had taken coffee out on the Ishtars' expansive porch, overlooking the Nile. They'd talked animatedly as the sun descended, the reds and oranges flaring in eachother's eyes, and the talk had quieted to a comfortable pace under the silver of the moon and stars, until the only sounds were the city and the rush of the river. His companion had been beautiful, so beautiful in the moonlight; but he always looked more at home under the sun. He'd never told Malik this, though, and he never would.

Or so he'd thought. Something had changed in the spirit of the Ring, had been changing in him for a long time; perhaps it had been the last time he'd switched hosts. Ryou Bakura had been unwell for nearly two decades, his health compromised by the excessive limits to which his body had been pushed. When he became well and truly sick, the spirit of the Ring had realized the foolishness that he'd thought himself far above, the very _mortal _way in which he'd overestimated his own power. It was with deep sadness that he'd felt Bakura's body dying, and he had arranged the very least to accommodate him... a place in Malik's home. The Egyptian had been more than willing to house Ryou, and abandoned all other commitments to keep him company, hardly giving him a moment alone. Their talks through those last months were so deep, so intimate and personal that the spirit of the Ring forced himself out of Ryou's mind, a rare show of sensitivity and respect for the host's privacy. When Ryou's life came to an end, he was in the company of Malik and Yugi Mutou—who had arrived at the door that very evening with no more explanation than that he had felt himself drawn there—and, of course, the spirit himself. They experienced the death together, and it may have been his eternal self-centeredness, but in that moment the spirit of the Ring thought that Ryou Bakura wasn't as unlucky as he was often made out to be.

The years that followed the spirit knew only by Malik's stories, and the Egyptian was very selective with them. The earliest he was able to remember was when he'd awoken again, a mere seed in the consciousness of this newest host. The host, this time, was a young Brit named Alan Parker, with pale hair and sharp features. Taller than Ryou Bakura, but not by much; darker than Ryou Bakura, but not by much. It would seem that Malik had sought out a host that resembled his last one... but no, Malik hadn't sought out hosts, that would be just... of course not, it was merely fate. Fate (Malik had said once, grinning devilishly) with a helping hand.

Of course, it wasn't as if Alan's body was _that _similar to Ryou's. While they were both very slim, Alan's shoulders were broader, and he had more width to his back. Ryou's skin had a yellow tone, Alan's had a ruddy one. Their eyes were different, as well; where Ryou's had been dark and soulful, Alan's were nearly unsettling in their paleness. And his teeth were rather crooked, which had bothered the spirit of the Ring to no end at first, accustomed as he was to the straight and unassuming line of Ryou's teeth... he found, after a while, that they suited him.

There was one other, very important practical difference between the two hosts, and that was the fact that Alan had not been as... cooperative as Ryou. He'd had a mean nature, a punk, and he hadn't been particularly bright. A heroin addict, as well, which the Ring spirit had had a nasty time in overcoming. Overcoming Alan's will had been an even nastier time... but at this point, nearly a decade later, Alan Parker had been all but eradicated from his own mind. As it were, he hadn't been a very strong presence there to begin with.

The area was looking familiar, and a surge of giddiness ran through the spirit of the Ring. He could _feel _Malik, his nearness. Perhaps it was a quirk of this new host, but the spirit had been feeling more strongly for the Egyptian since the switch. Yes, he would chalk it up to the host... when he arrived before the austere Ishtar house, the Ring spirit could hardly get rid of his driver quickly enough. When he knocked, he could barely wait. Yes, it must be the host, a particularly excitable host.

"_Akhi!_" Ishizu's voice, she always was the first to hear the door. "Malik!"

Malik's voice, bringing a grin to the Ring spirit's face, baring Alan's crooked teeth. Soft steps, and it was Ishizu who opened the door, as it often was.

"Hello," she greeted him with all the warmth she usually did—that is, none. "He's on the porch."

"Couldn't be bothered to come greet me, could he?" He didn't await a response and moved past Ishizu, into the lovely sitting room. It was decorated with only a fraction of the ancient finery the Ishtar family had accumulated over their time as living national treasures, and the whole area glittered with gold. It always pleased his thieving eye, just as the glint of Malik's gold had caught it years ago. He passed Rishid in the kitchen, not sparing him a word and not receiving any. They never got along.

When the Ring spirit passed the threshold to the porch, he could feel Malik so much more strongly, and his heart swelled as he spotted him. The Egyptian was reclining in a wicker chair, regal as ever, with a cup of coffee cradled in his lap. His gaze was fixed on the sunset, just as it had been when the spirit had seen him last; and then it would seem that Malik felt him too, because he turned, and their eyes met.

"Ah, Bakura," he said; odd that he never dropped the nickname. "Welcome back. To what do I owe the honor?" He smirked, the red hot light of the sun gleaming in his eyes. "As if I didn't know."

'Bakura' missed a beat, caught up with taking in the sight of his old friend. Malik was swathed in light linen, as he often was these days—the heat was starting to get to him. His form was very elegant that way, the mass of his youth having diminished and left behind its handsome frame... his skin, darker now, stood out brilliantly against the cloth, and the near white of his hair. He'd never grown a beard, didn't like the way he looked with one, leaving exposed all the new lines and dips of his aging. And from beneath heavy lids peered those eyes, brilliant violet eyes that had seen so much... and yet, had somehow remained exactly the same as the day they met. 'Bakura' grinned, and Malik grinned back.

"Happy birthday," the Ring spirit said.

Malik bowed his head graciously in return.

He was seventy-five today.


End file.
